Wavelength
by somethingsdont
Summary: BB. She wants to offer him something comforting, something therapeutic, but instead, "You have to stop saving my life." Post 1.15, Two Bodies in the Lab


**Title**: Wavelength  
**Author**: Lucy (somethingsdont)**  
Pairing**: Booth/Brennan  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Timeline**: 1.15, Two Bodies in the Lab  
**Summary**: She wants to offer him something comforting, something therapeutic, but instead, "You have to stop saving my life."  
**Notes**: I'm on a bit of a Bones fic high. I think it's just because I'm really anxious about how the next two episodes are going to be handled. I was watching season 1 again, and this little fic was inspired by TBITL. Not entirely sure how it came off, but please enjoy!

* * *

She shows up at his apartment at two in the morning and lets herself in; the door clicks ominously behind her. There are boundaries, she remembers as she slinks through his dark apartment. There are boundaries, and she's crossed one. She finds his bedroom door slightly ajar and pushes in, heart pounding as it creaks open beneath her fingertips. One and a half.

She doesn't know why she's there.

His blinds are carelessly drawn, permitting the streetlamp outside to cast streaks of light against his sheets. They bend around the contours of his torso like a topographic overlay, identifying him beneath the covers. She wants to map him the way the streetlights through oblique Venetian blinds can, wants to be the photons that mark him in his sleep.

She doesn't know how to tell him.

He shifts then, suddenly, his breathing ragged and shallow. The illuminated lines across his sheets crease with his movements but never disappear (that's what she wants – never to fade). She begins approaching his bed, taking pause when his floorboards squeak beneath her feet. His senses are sharp from years in the military, and he begins moving unevenly under his sheets, rotating, realigning. His body stills for a moment; hers turns to ice.

"Bones?" he mumbles, grunting in pain as he reaches for his bedside lamp.

A small flick, and the room is bathed in an ethereal glow. She squints against the contrast, her arm instinctively rising to shield her eyes. It's a moment when she should offer an explanation or an apology, but nothing comes except… _right side of the bed_. He sleeps on the right side of the bed, and that's the same side she occupies. But she's willing to adjust.

She doesn't know what that means.

"Bones, jeez," he mutters, eyeing her tentatively. "I almost shot you."

"I just wanted to—" But it falls flat against her tongue because she's not as quick a thinker when he's watching her with his honest eyes. She looks down for a moment, finds her throat parched. "I shouldn't be here," is all she can say as she heads for his doorway. It's inelegant and uncomfortable and everything she doesn't want to be.

He pushes himself higher, winces against his battered bones. "Hey, where're you going? You nearly gave me a heart attack. Least you can do is stick around and make sure I don't need any medical attention."

Humor. A self-deprecating observation about his own state of health. Funny. It's meant to be funny. She blinks back a few stubborn tears. _Damn it_.

"Bones, say something," he urges. She can read this one, too. Concern. She wants to tell him that it's ill-placed, that it should be the other way around.

There are moments, she knows. Moments to throw caution to the wind (not literally – caution matters but isn't matter) and allow another person to share her vulnerability. She's already there, but something stops her. She's counting the seconds in her head, and he's staring expectantly at her, so she blurts out the first thing that comes to mind:

"Are you sure you should be home?"

"You asked me that at the hospital," he points out, more amused than the occasion probably warrants.

"No," she corrects him, "at the hospital, I asked you if you should be _going_ home, since you weren't yet. I was asking for an educated prediction, whereas now I am asking you to make use of existing knowledge and determine whether staying home is beneficial to your health," she explains. Long-winded and… "There's a difference," she concludes.

He smiles faintly. "I'm fine, Bones."

Her eyes rake the portions of his body that are visible. His cheeks and jaw are swollen still, his shoulders bruised, and she notices the beginning of bandages peeking out from beneath his covers. She wants to offer him something comforting, something therapeutic, but instead, "You have to stop saving my life."

His response is immediate and accompanied by the lifting of sheets. "Come here."

She hesitates a second longer than she wants to and three seconds longer than she thinks she should, but she manages to swallow her pride (not literally – pride matters but isn't matter). She relents, kicking off her shoes before climbing into bed with him, fully clothed. It's strangely comforting. The mattress sinks under her weight as she leans back against his headboard.

He lowers himself slowly, poorly-hidden flinches flashing in his eyes as he breathes against the pain. She wants to help, but she doesn't know how to touch him, where, so she watches helplessly as he attempts to find a comfortable position to sleep in. She knows it doesn't exist. Not tonight, and maybe not for a little while. She's seen his x-rays.

"Is there something I can do to—" She motions at his injuries.

"Yeah," he exhales.

"What?"

His eyes close. "Stay here," he requests, "and talk to me."

"What—" She laughs uncertainly. "What do you want me to say?"

"Tell me a story," he suggests. His face scrunches in pain, and he takes a deep breath. "Or teach me about bones. Anything."

She peers over at his nightstand and finds a small white-topped orange bottle. "Do you need a Percocet?"

He shakes his head, fighting another wince. "Nah, took one before I went to bed." He looks expectantly at her. "So do I get an anatomy lesson?" His expression is one of genuine enthusiasm.

Her lips draw together tightly. "You hate when I talk about bones."

"I hate when you talk about bones while we're trying to catch a murderer," he clarifies, punctuating the word 'murderer' in a way that makes her smile. Just slightly because he's still in pain and she knows this doesn't absolve her of anything. He settles back against his pillow. "Just talk, Bones."

"But why?" She refuses to let it go, let him go. "How does that help you?" she asks, eyes tracing his bruises.

"It just does." The muscles in his shoulder contract, and she concludes it'd be a shrug if he isn't so worn out.

"That's not really a reason," she presses.

When he opens his eyes, they're insistent. "I like knowing I'm connected."

"I don't know what that—" Her voice catches in her throat when his fingers lace hers. She takes a deep breath and tries to play along. "There are 206 bones in the adult human body," she states as though she's lecturing. He knows this. She knows that he knows this. "Twenty-two in the skull," she continues, "six in the ears, one in the throat—"

"The hyoid," he states proudly.

"You've been studying," she remarks with a smile.

His lips curve into a grin, but he says nothing.

She gives his hand a quick squeeze. "The hyoid is the only bone in the human skeleton that does not articulate with any other bone."

His forehead creases thoughtfully. "How does it stay in place?"

"Ligaments," she replies, momentarily forgetting where they are. Her free hand floats to the front of her neck, her fingers drawing lines across her skin as she explains. "Ligaments attach the hyoid to the temporal styloid processes." She tilts her head to study his features. "Booth, why are you letting me prattle on about the skeletal system?"

He presses his lips together. "Why are you in my bed at two in the morning?"

"Because I—" _want to know I'm connected too. _But she doesn't say that.

"Yeah," he breathes.

"I couldn't sleep," she offers as an explanation.

"Yeah, me neither."

She smiles wryly. "You were asleep when I got here," she points out.

"It's the Percocet," he dismisses. "How's your forehead?"

"Booth, you have broken ribs," she argues. "I really don't think you should be worried about the shallow laceration on my forehead." A moment passes, then two. She remembers what he's done. "You really should stop saving my life," she rehashes tenderly.

His chest rises and falls in a silent chuckle. "I'll think about it."

Her sight falls to his sheets, and she notices that they're no longer illuminated by the streetlight, having been overpowered by the proximity of his bedside lamp. The lines she'd observed are gone, and she isn't quite sure where that leaves her. Shadows shift; light is nothing more than electromagnetic radiation dispersing at a specific wavelength, being absorbed and reflected, absorbed and reflected.

Two hundred and ninety-nine million, seven hundred and ninety-two thousand, four hundred and fifty-eight meters per second.

But they're not in a vacuum. They're _here_, and she has about that many things to say to him.

"Staying the night, Bones?"

Her eyes snap to his. "You don't mind?"

"'Course not. Lemme just—"

"I'll get it." She reaches over him, careful not to exacerbate his existing injuries, and fumbles around the base of the lamp for a moment before she finds the switch and flicks it. The darkness is sudden and piercing. Her pelvis brushes his shoulder, and the physiological response in her chest startles her.

She slides back to the left side of the bed and eases herself under the covers. He doesn't say anything else after that, and neither does she. His hand finds hers again, squeezes softly. She accepts it as reassurance.

The lines across his sheets have reappeared, the light fighting through his slanted blinds. In the morning, they'll be gone.

But she won't.


End file.
